by Lily Baldwin
Chapter Seven
Simon’s eyes softened. He stepped toward her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Though you may be small, you are in possession of great heart. Thank you,” he whispered.
“Do not do this, Joanie,” Diana said, her voice pleading. “You have already given me so much. All things must come to an end.”
Joanie allowed her shoulders to drop from around her ears. She stood straight. “Now is not the end.” Then she turned to Simon. “What must I do?”
“Remove your clothing. I will have servants from the kitchen bring water for a bath. They also will assist you with your…ablutions.” Simon’s voice trailed off as he openly scrutinized Joanie’s appearance. She knew what he saw. Tattered tunic. Stiff, dirty black hair. Dull, white skin. Wide, dry lips. Instinctively, her shoulders rose to her ears once more.
“Stand up straight,” he snapped. Then he turned on his heel and strode out the door.
“Joanie,” Diana began.
Joanie steeled her heart against her beseeching tone. “My mind is made up. I will take the master’s anger off your shoulders. I am strong. I may not look it, but I am. You know I am. I can take it, Diana; whereas … you cannot.” She felt her voice tighten as grief filled her very soul.
“Please, Joanie.”
Desperation and fear forced Joanie’s voice to rise. “Do not ask me to hand you over to the wolf, to surrender you to him. You cannot ask that of me, Diana. You can’t.” A sob tore from her throat.
Diana opened her arms. A flood of tears burst from Joanie’s eyes as she allowed Diana to enfold her in a weak embrace. “Hush, my dear sister. All right,” she soothed. “We will get through this together.”
Joanie lifted her head and swiped her eyes. Then she nodded.
“Go on then,” Diana gently urged her. “Do as Simon has bade. Take your clothes off.”
Joanie took a deep breath and nodded again, not yet trusting herself to speak. Diana did not have much time. The end was nigh. But it would not be that night. And it would not be the master who took Diana from her.
She circled around the screen and shed her clothing, letting the threadbare woolen pieces drop to the floor. Her eyes scanned over her scarred, bruised body before she peeked through the cracks between the panels of the screen toward the door, waiting fearfully for it to open.
Several minutes passed, and she shivered from the chill in the air. Scooting the screen closer to the hearth, she continued her vigil, her eyes trained on the door. Several more minutes passed when suddenly she heard footfalls echoing through the corridor. Fearing it was the master, her heart started to pound, but then she expelled a slow breath as the door swung open and Simon entered, along with several men carrying steaming buckets of water, followed by two young maids. Joanie watched through the slits in the screen as they filled the tub. Steam floated off the surface.
“Come out from there,” Simon said, his voice not unkind but certainly commanding. Joanie jumped at the sound. She scanned the room still teeming with servants.
“No,” she hissed.
“Dismiss the men,” she heard Diana say the instant before another coughing fit set in.
“Diana,” Joanie said, peering with concern through the crack in the screen.
“I will take care of her,” Simon said. Then he barked several commands as he slid his arm behind Diana’s head and held the bowl to catch the spittle from her lips. “The men are gone. Only the two maids remain. Now, come out.”
Joanie eyed the young serving girls for a moment. Then her gaze settled back on Simon. A moment later, he answered the question plaguing her mind.
“I am not leaving. This plan falls on my head too. I will make sure your appearance is right. Now, come out from behind that screen and get into the tub, or I will come around and toss you in there myself. Do you understand?”
Joanie’s eyes widened. She knew Simon’s threat was not idly made. Taking a deep breath, she scurried from behind the screen, her hands covering her nakedness.
“Dear God,” Simon gasped.
Startled, she turned her head and met his gaze. She saw the horror in his eyes as he scanned the back of her naked body. She knew what he saw — a lifetime of fists, lashes, and worse had left their mark on her skin. Awash in shame, she hid her head between her shoulders and quickly climbed into the tub, sinking beneath the surface to hide from the world. Only her need to breathe forced her to resurface. The moment her head broke through, hands started to scrub and wash her body.
“Be gentle,” she heard Simon snap.
One of the servants washed her hair with a bar of perfumed soap while the other girl scrubbed her arms, breasts, stomach, and legs with a rough soapy rag. When she was done, she dropped the rag and scooped a mix of oil and crushed nuts with which she attacked Joanie’s body until her skin felt raw. She sputtered when a bucket of water poured down over her head.
“Lay your head back and upturn your face,” one of the girls said.
Joanie did as she was bid and closed her eyes. She winced as the oil and nuts raked her skin. The girl pressed it into her cheeks and forehead and neck in hard circular motions. Then she cupped water in her hands and rinsed away the residue. Joanie breathed deep the heavy scent of lavender while the maid rubbed just the oil gently into her cheeks and brow, soothing away the hurt. She closed her eyes and tried to surrender to the calming scent. But then she winced when she heard Simon say, “Her eyebrows are too thick.” A moment later the touch of cool metal grazed her forehead. She gripped the sides of the tub as hair after hair was plucked from her brow.
“That’s better,” Simon said with approval.
A moment later, a warm thick paste was being pressed onto her face. The sweet smell of porridge and honey made her stomach growl, reminding her she had not eaten a bite that day. She resisted the urge to lick off a morsel to ease her hunger pains.
“Enough,” Simon said.
She could hear the impatience in his voice. Or was it nerves?
“We must allow time for her hair to dry. Get her out of the tub and continue her treatments near the hearth.”
Instantly, she felt hands reach under her arms. “I can get up on my own,” she snapped, and she started to stand. But then the cool air hit her nakedness. She rushed to cover herself, sinking back beneath the water. How could Diana do this, day after day, allowing hands to paw her and eyes to see her body? Joanie’s face burned.
“Do you need my help?” Simon’s voice held a warning. She shook her head and stood, hunched over, her hands trying to shield her body from the many eyes in the room.
“Stand up straight,” Simon snapped again.
Slowly, she unraveled and stood straight with her hands at her sides. He came around to the front of her and scrutinized her. He took her hands and turned them over.
“Who knew you had such a body hiding under your clothes,” Diana said weakly from the bed.
“If you can look past the battle scars,” Simon said, scowling. “Still, your figure has more curve than I would have guessed, which is a relief. But the condition of your hands is appalling. We will do our best, but you will likely have to wear gloves.” He tipped his thumb under her chin. “Open your eyes, Joanie.”
She held her breath and dug deep to find her courage and forced her lids to open.
There was nothing salacious or mocking in Simon’s gaze. He looked at her sternly. “Just because you are common does not mean you must be common. Stand up straight.”
She expelled a short breath, fear and shame swirled around her in dizzying emotional waves. “I am nothing,” she blurted.
“Those are your father’s words,” Diana said. “Do not make them your own.”
Simon inspected her face. “Her skin needs no paint. Her fairness would be the envy of every woman at court. Apply lemon juice to her lips. And line her eyes to show off their size. Just a dash of rouge. And brush her hair out and let it fall freely. When it’s dry, oil it. Choose a tunic with a high neckline
to cover her scars, but take it in so that it is fitted to her curves. I will return in a few hours to see how you progress.”
Sometime later, Joanie stood very still while one of the maids shortened Diana’s sapphire blue tunic. When she was finished, she tied a belt tightly around Joanie’s waist. Then she dabbed perfumed oil behind her ear and on the inside of her wrists. Meanwhile, the other maid continued what she had been doing for at least an hour — rubbing thick cream made from hog fat and lavender oil into her hands.
When Simon returned, he didn’t bother knocking. He walked into the room, straight over to where she stood. He scrutinized every inch of her, straightening her belt, checking the evenness of her hemline. He lifted her chin and turned her face from side to side. Then he stepped back and brought a hand to his bearded chin as he continued his scrutiny. Just as Joanie was about to race back behind the screen, a slight smile curved Simon’s lips. He grabbed Diana’s hand mirror off her bedside table and held it in front of Joanie.
“Do you still believe you are nothing?” Simon asked softly.
Joanie didn’t recognize the woman looking back at her. This stranger had shiny ebony waves, pinned up on one side with a sprig of dried lavender. Her brown eyes, outlined in charcoal, gleamed like amber jewels. The color of her lips had taken on a deep blush from the lemon juice and stood out in shocking contrast to her fair skin, which shone with bright vitality. Her brows were thin and perfectly arched. Her heart started to pound, and she felt her shoulders rise up as she longed to shrink away from her own reflection.
“You can hide from everyone but yourself,” Simon said.
“Let me see you,” Diana urged.
Joanie crossed to where her friend lay. Diana’s skin looked mottled, and the rings beneath her eyes had darkened.
She smiled with approval. “My beauty is fashionable, perfectly predictable. Yours, on the other hand, is unique, powerful.”
Joanie’s stomach twisted. She did not wish to be beautiful. She wanted to be forgettable.
“It is time,” Simon said, behind them. Her heart started to pound, but she saw fear invade Diana’s peace. Fighting back her own terror, Joanie smiled gently at her mistress. “I can do this,” Joanie said with forced confidence. “Simon’s plan is a good one. You’ll see.”
Chapter Eight
Joanie walked down the long corridor of the southern wing on Simon’s arm. Candlelight flickered as they passed. She strained to focus on Simon’s words over the din of her own beating heart.
“Remember to stand up straight. Never rush your movements. Walk slowly, seductively. Charm every man and woman with just the shadow of a smile or the tilt of your head.”
Her stomach twisted. “I have not left that room in months. For years, the only souls I’ve spoken to are you and Diana, and you ask me to be charming.”
He grabbed her arm and stopped her, his gaze desperate. “The only hope we have of saving Diana is for you to strike wonder in everyone’s heart.” His grip tightened. “I’ve heard you sing. You don’t know this, but I have stood outside the door and listened to you with baited breath.” He shook his head. “There is something indescribable about your voice. It cries and rejoices all at the same time. You have it in you to steal their breath, and if you do, the master will be praised by all. He will be a champion.” Simon’s grip tightened still. “But if you falter, if you allow fear to be your guide, then the master will be made a fool. God save us all from that.”
For a moment, Joanie sank beneath the pressure of Simon’s words, but then she realized he too risked it all for Diana. “You love her, don’t you?”
Simon closed his eyes and released her arm, gently taking her hand instead. “My every thought, my every breath and prayer is for her.”
Tears stung Joanie’s eyes, but she took a deep breath and squeezed Simon’s hand before she stepped from his side and moved just behind the large screen that separated her from the high dais and beyond that, the great hall. She gripped her tunic, her mind racing about what could possibly await her on the other side. Still, no matter what she saw, she had to rise above her fear. She imagined for a moment that she was someone else. Someone who was not afraid. Someone who had been adored her whole life. Someone who knew what it meant to be loved and admired. Her grandmother’s songs came to her then, filling her with images of the distant Highlands she had only seen in her dreams. She lengthened her spine and lifted her shoulders back and away from her ears.
“For Diana,” she whispered. “For my grandmother.” She almost took her first step, but then she paused. “For me.”
With a deep breath, she stepped from behind the screen onto the high dais, which had been used as a stage since the king had moved to York and the days of revelry had begun. She opened her lips and let the first note ring out, strong and true. Pouring her heart and soul into each note, she sang of mountains high and fields of golden wheat bending in the wind. She didn’t stop when one song ended, but straightaway moved to the next, slowly moving across the dais and onto the floor where full trencher tables stretched out before her. Her hips swayed to her own music of lovers who grew old together and those who died young, of fierce battles, and a mother holding her baby for the first time. Images she created in her mind hovered above the heads of the audience, trapping her gaze. In that moment, she stood alone, singing for herself.
~ * ~
Alec sat at one of the trencher tables, trying his best to ignore the revelers. The keeper’s special regard for him had warranted other men’s caution and disdain, which suited Alec just fine. Now, they smiled at him, wanting to flatter someone so highly prized by John, but their smiles were naught but messages of thinly veiled hostility. For their efforts, Alec simply inclined his head, not encouragement enough for anyone to approach him but also enough to not offend, ensuring he was left alone. He looked forward to the day when he could leave the king’s palace for good, which would hopefully be soon. As far as the abbot was concerned, Alec’s work was already done. He had passed on his report about the monks who had partaken in the keeper’s unholy gatherings. More than that, he had led many of Scotland’s secret rebels in a heist, stealing the king’s treasure from the abbey’s Chapter House. The blame of the robbery had fallen on the shoulders of a man named Richard Ash, a greedy, hateful merchant who used to frequent the keeper’s galas in the palace.
It had been Richard’s idea to rob the Chapter House and steal the king’s treasure. He had confided his plan to Alec. But he also spoke of the wretched things he would do once the fortune was his — the enslavement of prostitutes, the ruination of whole families he blamed for his own failures — treachery Alec could never allow.
In the end, Alec organized Scotland’s agents and together, they pulled off the heist themselves. Now the royal wealth was being put to good use, feeding those in need and rebuilding Scotland’s army. Meanwhile the agents had put Richard on a merchant vessel heading to Venice, ensuring it would be months before he returned to England. Because the treasure and Richard disappeared at the same time, naturally the keeper assumed Richard was the thief.
Alec noticed the keeper enter from the courtyard. John sat at the head of the trencher table closest to the high dais. Alec watched as different merchants and nobles rotated in and out of the seat next to him, everyone having their turn with his ear. As if sensing his watchful eye, the keeper shifted in his seat and locked eyes with Alec, who raised his cup in greeting. But Alec did not get up and go to the keeper. Instead, the keeper stood for him.
“There is still no sign of Richard Ash?” the keeper asked under his breath when he claimed the seat next to Alec. Alec kept his senses keen, reading the keeper’s true desires over what he was actually saying.
“I’ve heard nothing yet, but if he turns up in London, I will be one of the first to know,” Alec lied, confident it would be many months before anyone spotted Richard Ash.
The keeper shook his head. Alec could sense his anxiety. “I want him found,” he hissed. “When
the king’s men arrive, the safety of my neck will only be assured if I have another neck to give them.”
Alec leaned closer. “You’ve already sent a message to the king about the robbery.” This wasn’t a question. Alec knew he had.
The keeper shrugged, feigning indifference, but Alec could feel his pounding heart. “I thought it better if I reveal what has happened, than for it to be discovered by someone else on my watch.” The keeper started to get up. “You will tell me if you hear anything?”
Alec nodded. “You know I will,” he lied.
As soon as he aided the lass from his vision, Alec would leave the palace and England altogether, and he could only hope to never return. He considered asking the keeper about who occupied the southern wing, but he decided to question someone who would be less curious about why he was asking.
Once more, his mind returned to the lass. He had felt her pain so deeply. It cut a fiery path straight to his heart, bypassing all the shields he had spent years erecting. But why this girl? Why her fear, and why now? Everyone he encountered was afraid of something. He leaned back and looked around. Across from him sat a man nearing his fiftieth year. His shoulders stooped over his tankard as he eyed the young serving girls. He feared death. Farther down the table was an older prostitute whose smile hid her fear for the health of her youngest daughter who, at that moment, was lost to fever. She had wanted nothing more than to remain by her side, but she needed coin to pay for the doctor and medicine. A young man who raised his cup, making toast after toast, feared being found less than his older brothers. Illness, betrayal, failure, the wrath of God — everyone was afraid of something.
“Where have you been these last weeks, Randolph?”